


You Better Move, You Better Dance

by blarfkey



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Also Charles has hips like Shakira, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles is Oblivious, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, M/M, Teacher! Charles, Teacher!Erik, Zumba!Au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 12:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2692706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” Charles demands.</p><p>         Erik slides into the seat across from him. “Zumba is nothing but twentysomethings and suburban housewives prancing around and doing booty pops to Ke$ha songs and calling it exercise. I thought you had more self-respect than that. You’re the track coach for God’s sake.”</p><p>          "Oh come off it. Going thrice a week, you wouldn't last a month."</p><p>         In which Erik must sacrifice his pride at the alter of Charles three times a week in order to win a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Better Move, You Better Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperclipbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/gifts).



> For paperclipbitch, who wanted a Cherik AU with a happy ending, which I was more than happy to give. <3

 Erik and Charles have been arguing ever since Erik arrived to Westchester High School as the new history teacher and Charles’ co-coach of the track team.  If Erik preferred the Stones, then Charles liked the Beatles. If Erik voted for Batman, then Charles rooted for Superman. Erik argued for Malcolm X and Charles argued for MLK last February in a student assembly that lasted forty five minutes longer than it should have and resulted in a scolding from Principal Frost and a year-long ban from further assemblies.

 Sometimes Erik wonders if Charles takes the opposing side out of pure spite and he also wonders why this doesn't bother him as much as it should. Frankly, Erik gets rather captivated by the intensity of Charles’ eyes when the man gets worked up and Erik may or may not bait Charles in these arguments for the sole purpose of seeing those eyes. Riling Charles up could be Erik’s secondary mutation. In fact, Erik starts these arguments more often than not and when he overhears Raven and Charles’ conversation in the teacher’s lounge, he decides today will be no different.

 “I think Sunday you should go a little easier on Hank. Have you seen him today? He can barely walk!”

  Erik raises an eyebrow at that. Raven took over the theater department the same year Erik started teaching. Hank, Charles’ student teacher, has been pathetically besotted ever since he laid eyes on her last semester. Of course, with her ability to shape-shift into any teenage boy’s fantasy, lots of men are besotted with Raven, but she enjoys crushing their hopes more than dating them. Did she finally make an exception?

“Wow, Raven. I must say I’m disappointed,” he says, stepping around the coke machine. “Of all the men that vie for your attention, you give in to that pathetic dweeb?”

Raven rolls her eyes. Unlike Charles, she’s immune to Erik’s ability to incense people. “Okay, first of all, Hank is not a _pathetic_ dweeb. He’s just a dweeb and for your information I find him fifty times more adorable than you. And second of all we’re not talking about sex.”

“We’re referring to the Zumba class Raven and I co-teach,” Charles adds.

 _Zumba?_ Erik cannot believe his luck. Usually, because Charles is disgustingly intelligent despite his naiveté, it’s difficult to find things to tease Charles about. But hearing that Charles teaching Zumba feels a bit like a Hanukkah present just dropped in his lap a couple months late.

“Zumba? Are you serious? Did you lose a bet?”

“Oh here we go,” Raven mutters. She kisses Charles on the top of his head. “I’m heading back to the stage. Hopefully Sean hasn’t fucked up anymore set pieces. It took a week to paint over the shroom-induced nightmare that was the poppy field background.”

Charles barely notices her leaving. Already his nose is flaring.

 “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” he demands.

Erik slides into the seat across from him. “Zumba is nothing but twentysomethings and suburban housewives prancing around and doing booty pops to Ke$ha songs and calling it exercise. I thought you had more self-respect than that. You’re the track coach for God’s sake.”

Charles’ mouth falls open and Erik can’t help but notice the generous curve of the man’s bottom lip.  “Excuse me, my friend, but Zumba is so much more than just prancing and booty pops! Have you ever _been_ to a Zumba class?”

Erik secretly loves it when Charles calls him _my_ _friend_ despite how formal and stuffy it sounds. It makes him feel significant, even though he and Charles have done nothing more than crack jokes at student functions and go out for the occasional beer. “No. _I_ have self-respect, thank you.”

“I don’t think you can sit there and judge from your high horse if you've never done it,” says Charles, leaning back in his chair.

“I don’t need to experience something in order to judge it.”

“Of course you don’t. Judging things is your favorite hobby.

“Oh, but it’s not yours? You can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but you can make fun of contestants on American Idol.”

“That’s different! I don’t need to sing to know that you’re not supposed to sound like Chewbacca with a hangover.”

Erik can’t help but laugh. “I’ll give you that one. But you can’t defend Zumba, Charles. It’s ridiculous. Even the name sounds ridiculous.”

Charles scrapes his chair back, stands up, and yanks his shirt up, revealing a smooth white stomach with subtle lines of definition and fucking _Gott in Himmel_.

"Do you think I get this stomach from lying around on my arse all day? Zumba is a hell of a workout, I’ll have you know.”

 It’s a struggle to stay combative when it takes every modicum of Erik’s impressive willpower just to drag his gaze back up to Charles’ face. His friend tucks his shirt back in his slacks, his cheeks a shade of pink that proves equally distracting.

 “For you perhaps,” says Erik, swallowing. “But I’ve been running cross country since I was twelve. I wouldn’t break a sweat in that class.”

 “Oh come off it, Erik. Going thrice a week you wouldn’t last a _month_.”

 “I’m also the coach of the track team, if you forgot. I think I can handle two hours of booty pops and prancing around.”

 A challenge lights up in Charles’ eyes like a flash of lightning. “Then prove it. Go to my classes for a month.”

 Erik quirks an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious.”

 “I’m deadly serious, my friend.”

 "What do I get out of it if I win?”

  “What do you want?” asks Charles.

  Erik’s mind stutters at the possibilities, the kind that take place with a bottle of wine and a door that locks. And condoms. A lot of condoms.

  _Dinner._ His mind screams. _Dinner and sex or at least very heavy petting. For the rest of my life._

What comes out of his mouth is: “You have to sing “It’s a Small World” at the Spring Talent Show.”

Charles’ face falls and really, Erik could fucking kill himself. “Erik, _I hate that song_.”

“I know you do.”

“It’s the song my mother used to sing to me after too many bourbon shots.”

“It’s good to keep family traditions,” says Erik bracingly.

“Fine. But if you lose then you have to have a role in Raven’s play. Perhaps in the Lollipop Guild?” Charles’ eyes light up. “Or the doorman to Emerald City!”

Erik groans. He hates the _Wizard of Oz_ , something else he and Charles have argued about. He suspects his distaste for it spurned Raven to put it on in the first place. She often teams up with Charles against him. It’s bad enough having to _attend_ the fucking thing (or face Raven’s considerable wrath) but to actually _act_ in it? Night after night for three nights? Fucking unbearable.

“You’re on,” he says.

They shake on it, Charles’ hand warm and smooth against Erik’s calloused fingers. He doesn’t want to let go – it would be so easy to pull Charles flush against him and –

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch.

“I’ll text you the time and address,” says Charles, gathering his lunchbox. “Don’t be late.”

 

Zumba takes place in a tiny, narrow dance studio squeezed in between a café and an antique store on Main Street. Erik arrives fifteen minutes early, but stands on the sidewalk outside, unable to bring himself to enter. Women of all ages give him curious looks as they step inside. It’s five minutes till when Erik feels the particular shape of Pietro’s goggles coming down the street.

“What the _fuck_?”

Hank slams into Pietro, who has skidded to a halt a few feet from Erik and they exchange looks of mutual horror. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Dude, like, are you lost or something?” Pietro asks. He lets out a high pitched, nervous giggle.

Hank blinks over Pietro’s shoulder. “Erik?

Erik contemplates immediately forfeiting, but the prospect of singing “The Lollipop Guild” in lederhosen stops him.

“Are _you_ lost?” He snaps, sending Pietro his patent death glare.

Before Pietro can retort, the door opens and Charles sticks his head out.

“Hank, Mrs. Carter has been eyeing your spot. I suggest you hurry. Oh hello, Erik!” He adds brightly. He holds the door open while the three men scuttle inside, Erik throwing one more backward glance to the street to make sure he doesn’t have any more witnesses.

Charles points to a sign in sheet on the desk beside the entrance. “You can hang your coat over here, and be sure to sign in as a non-member.”

Erik shucks his coat and signs his name on the sheet in his most illegible handwriting so that Charles doesn’t get any Snapchat ideas.

“Oh, and I need five dollars.” Charles leans across the counter, flashing Erik a cloyingly sweet smile.

“Are you serious? I have to _pay_  fifteen bucks a week for this bet?”

Charles shrugs. “If you wanted me to whore out my Zumba instruction for free, you should have bought me dinner first.”

 _I should have_ Erik thinks. In fact, a dinner invitation rests on the tip of his tongue, but then music starts blaring from the stereo as Raven scrolled through various songs on her iPod. Erik quickly found a place in the left corner, close to the door. A couple women gave him a lingering once-over, undaunted by the cold glare he sent in return.

Charles and Raven took their places on the small raised platform at the center-front of the room. Hank stands a foot away, his tall and gawky frame sticks out like a scarecrow. Pietro takes his place directly behind Hank, failing subtlety when his eyes dart nervously over at Erik.

 _He doesn’t want any witnesses either_ thinks Erik, but before he can continue that thought, _fucking Ke$ha_ blares from the speakers. Erik catches a glimpse of Charles’ evil smile before the room jumps into motion.

Everyone suddenly kicks and jumps and steps back and forth and waves their arms around in random patterns. Erik is left stumbling after, like a drunk elephant, trying to keep up. The patterns of movement shift so suddenly that by the time Erik starts to get the hang of it, it switches to something else. The moves themselves aren’t difficult – Erik is just inexperienced and has absolutely no rhythm to speak of.  The women around him seem to know this song and they all move in perfect synchronization. Even the grandma in front of Erik puts him to shame and he might need a drink after this.

The next song launches right after the first one ends, some hip hop song Erik has never heard of and never wants to hear again. Despite his absolute humiliation, Erik has to keep his eyes locked on Charles to copy the man’s movements and every time he catches Charles’ eye, the man gives him an unbearable smirk at Erik’s fumbling movements. The embarrassment is almost enough to make Erik want to quit and leave right then and there.

But then the song changes again to something generically Latin and Charles starts swaying his hips and _oh my God_. Erik’s eyes track the sinful, controlled circle of his hips and he forgets everything else.

 _Do try to keep up._ Charles’ voice whispers in his mind.

Erik snaps out of his lust-stupid reverie and grimly rejoins the group, jerking his hips to the left and right like a faulty robot. He pointedly ignores the grin on Raven’s face and focuses on Charles.

Between the fast paced moves and the debilitating distraction of Charles’ hips, Erik doesn’t have time to cringe at himself or his environments. In fact, he finds himself struggling for breath and gulping down water in the twenty second break in between songs. He and Pietro exchange harassed expressions over the heads of the other women whenever a particularly brutal song ends.

At the end of the hour, Erik and Pietro are leaning against the back wall, chugging the last of their water and pretending that they aren’t as out of breath as they actually are. Well, Erik does these things and Pietro follows his lead. Charles is caught up gossiping with a group of women while Hank moons over Raven by the stage.

“So, like, why are you here again?” Pietro asks.

Erik raises an eyebrow at him. “Why are _you_ here?”

Pietro shrugs and jerks his thumb over at Hank. “Moral support. He’s too chicken shit to go without anyone holding him accountable.”

“That’s  . . .kind of you,” says Erik, surprised.

“Eh. I live next door to the guy and it beats the hell out of seeing him mope all the time. So, like, what’s the 411 Mr. Lehnsherr? Did you come up here to pick up chicks? Cause, like, they’re all pretty much married. Or in college? You like collage girls? Dude, that’s so gross, you’re so old!”

Even though the kid shares Raven’s resistance to Erik’s intimidation tactics, he isn’t completely immune. Erik levels him with his best Shut the Fuck Up Glare.

“Pietro. Shut the fuck up.”

With kids like Pietro, you really have to reinforce the message, especially when you’re not on school grounds. Sure enough, the kid’s eyes go wide and he clamps his mouth in a thin line. Erik sighs.

“It was a bet,” he admits. “With Charles. He said I couldn’t last a month.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes more sense. You guys are always going at it, you know?” Pietro smacks Erik’s shoulder. “It’s not so bad after the first couple of times. Actually, today was worse than any other time I’ve been.”

 “Erik!” Charles breaks off from the group of women and strides over to them. “I see you’ve survived your first time.”

“It was hardly unsurvivable,” sniffs Erik.

“We’ll see how confidant you are tomorrow morning.” Charles grins, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

To make matters worse, Raven saunters over, Hank following dutifully behind.

“Not bad for your first time,” she tells him. “But you’re gonna have to work on your hip movements if you want to stop embarrassing yourself.”

Charles snickers behind his hand.

“Fuck off,” Erik says, his cheeks warm.

“I’m just saying, Hank here can swing his hips better. In fact, I bet even seventy year old Mrs. Dewey can sway better.”

“Knowing her, though, I bet she’s had lots of practice,” Charles murmurs.

Raven starts jerking her body like a she might be having a seizure, her eyebrows furrowed in exaggerated solemnity that keeps cracking into giggles.

“Do I need to call a doctor?” Erik asks dryly.

“No, I’m just copying you! Jesus, Erik, where did you learn how to dance?”

“Actually,” says Charles, “he was more like this.”

Together they start twitching and jerking around, and there is no way Erik looked that completely idiotic. Right?

Erik glances at his wrist. “I hate to leave such a stimulating conversation, but I have other matters to attend to.”

“Do you hear that, Charles?” snickers Raven. “He has ‘matters’ to ‘attend to’. He’s not even wearing a watch!”

The siblings collapse against each other, consumed by their laughter and Erik is getting more and more pissed off by the second.

“I don’t have to listen to this,” he tells them and walks out.

              

Erik hasn’t faced that level of embarrassment since he moved here from Germany in the fifth grade and everyone made fun of his accent and remedial English classes. Erik does not get embarrassed, mainly because most people are too intimidated to ever try. One of the most infuriating things about Charles (and subsequently, Raven) is that he has never once in his life been intimidated by Erik.

It should not be so appealing.

And yet if Erik goes three times a week for a month . . .he doesn’t think he can handle twelve continuous blows of this magnitude to his pride. Is it really worth that to avoid a couple nights playing a background character in Raven’s play? Sure it would be embarrassing, but it would only three nights worth of embarrassing instead of an entire month. And it would suck to admit defeat to Charles, but it definitely beats having that man’s smug grin three times a week for a month.

               

In the middle of his shower Erik realizes that he forgot to talk to Pietro. If word spreads around campus that Erik was shaking his hips at Zumba, his reputation as Westchester’s most terrifying teacher is in the trash. Without his reputation, his classroom will become a fucking zoo and Frost will fire him the second their shitty test scores roll in.

He drives over to Pietro’s house, which takes all of half a minute because the kid lives one street over, ready with some bullshit lie about Pietro missing some class notes, but before he knocks on the front door, instinct tells him to turn around. He peers up into the oak tree in the front yard that Pietro no doubt has been sitting in the second before Erik turned off his ignition.

“Uh . . ‘sup Mr. Lehnsherr.”

Erik crosses his arms. “Pietro. Why don’t you come down?”

Pietro shakes his head. “You’re here to kill me, aren’t you? So I don’t squeal?”

“Pietro, you can drop down or I can pull you down by the zipper of your jeans and those ridiculous studs you wear in your ears. Not pleasant.”

"Ugh. Fine. Okay. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

In the blink of an eye Pietro leans against the tree trunk, looking like he’s ready to dash to Manhattan at any second. Erik lays a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder and gives him the intense glare that has terrified many a student.

“I’m not going to kill you -- I would lose my teaching license.  But I will say that if word of this morning gets out to _anyone_ , you will pay very dearly for it. Understood?”

Pietro swallows. “Oh yeah. Totally. Not a peep, Mr. Lehnsherr. No worries. Just as long as you promise the same.”

Erik sticks his hand out. “It’s a deal.”

They shake and Erik even returns Pietro’s tentative smile.

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

 

 He will _never_ admit this, but Pietro is his favorite student.

The kid showed up for the track team two years ago and ran a six mile marathon around the track in under 45 seconds before collapsing at Erik’s feet. Erik had allowed himself visions of storming Nationals in a blaze of glory for a few seconds before letting reality crash back down.

“I can’t actually let you compete with your powers,” Erik had told him.

“I don’t care,” the kid had said in between deep gulping breaths. “My mom just wants me to get all my energy out before I go home.”

“That I can do,” Erik promised him.

Ever since, Pietro has become Erik’s second shadow, signing up for all Erik’s AP History classes and even his Holocaust Literature elective even though the kid’s grades barely hover above a “C” average.

“The poor boy worships you,” Charles had told him when it started.

“Can I tell him to stop? It’s strange.”

“It’s not strange, Erik. Have you never been admired before?” There had been a softness to Charles’ gaze, one that had skirted around pity.

It always unnerves Erik, how close to home Charles’ comments hit. It spikes a shameful paranoia in him, even though he knows (now) that Charles has never tread through Erik’s thoughts and memories. But it still frightens Erik to be so _transparent_ to another person.

 

The next morning Erik’s legs have turned to wood, like he fell asleep a real boy and woke up as Pinocchio. His thighs, calves, ankles, even the bottoms of his fucking feet are stiff and achy. What the hell is this? Erik is a runner. He doesn’t _get_ sore anymore.

Sure, he had fallen out of the habit of his morning run ever since the new school year started, and now that he added that Holocaust literature course, grading and planning took up almost his entire evenings most nights. But still. Erik had been running for _years_. Surely three months of lethargy couldn’t have regressed him _this_ far?

It takes him twice as long to get ready, creaking and hobbling around the house like his fucking grandfather. He sat on the floor of his bedroom after his long, steaming shower to stretch some of the limberness back in his limbs, not that it helped very much.

He barely makes into class before the first bell spends the entire lecture leaning against his desk. He debated sitting on top of his desk in a rare show of informality, but his legs would not cooperate, so he leaned as much of his weight against the edge of it before it started sliding backwards.

 

By the end of second period, Erik notices lots of kids staring at him and whispering. Pietro will spend the rest of his life in detention when Erik gets his hands on him. In third period Erik hobbled out to the track field to find Charles already putting the team through their warm up stretches. Alex looks up at Erik’s entrance and grins and waves at him before Charles calls his attention back. Erik lays his fiercest glare steady and heavy on Pietro, who pointedly does not look at him. He’s so angry he can’t even appreciate how unnaturally limber Charles is.

It’s a pity to kill his favorite student, but this is not to be born.

Then Charles calls for a warm up job and sends them running for a couple laps around the track.

“Good morning, Erik,” he greets. “Running a little late?”

“Morning,” Erik grunts out, eyes trained on Pietro and trying to figure out the best time to kidnap the boy.

“You’re looking a little stiff there, my friend,” says Charles with a dangerous grin.

Erik most certainly does _not_ blush at the innuendo.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Really? Then would you like to join the warm up jog with me?”

Erik loves Charles, really, but he has never hated the man like he does in this moment.

“I have something important to discuss with Pietro. About his paper. For class.”

Charles’ eyebrows jump up. “He turned in a paper?”

“No. That’s the problem.”

Which is not strictly a lie – Pietro offers insightful, if strange and slang-ladden, commentary in class but his attention span doesn’t stretch long enough for any actual work.

When the team assembles in front of Charles and Erik, panting slightly, Erik pulls Pietro off to the side while Charles discusses tactics for their first meet in a couple of weeks.

“Dude, I know. I will get you that paper, like, really soon okay?” Pietro babbles.

“I don’t care about your paper. What the hell did you say?” Erik demands.

“What are you talking about?”

“People are staring at me. Alex _smiled_ at me. What did you tell them?”

“ _Oh_ , that.” Pietro grins. “People noticed in first period that you were walking funny, so I told people that you beat up a burglar that tried to break into your house and you chased him for five miles before dragging him into the police station yourself.”

Erik just stares at him for a minute. “A burglar?” Pietro nods. “For five miles?” Erik claps a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “I accept this. Good work.”

“Also you used a couple of whisks for handcuffs?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

For the rest of third period and all the way through first lunch that he and Charles monitored, Erik feels the smugness radiated from the man every time Erik struggled to bend down to pick up stray napkins or plastic forks that didn't make it in the trash, or the wince Erik can’t keep from his face when he walks down steps.

By the time their own lunch break starts, Erik is scripting in his head the best way to call off the bet without sounding like he’s admitting defeat.

“Charles, I think –“ he starts to say, before Raven bounces in the room with a terrifying gleam in her eye.

 “So I was bouncing around ideas in my head over one of our scene run-throughs today and I finally figured out what you could be if you lose the bet,” she says.

This does not bode well.

“We’ve got this stuffed dog to play Toto because we can’t get a real dog for obvious reasons,” Raven continues and yeah, Erik does not like the direction this is going. “But we could totally dress you up as a dog instead!”

Charles immediately starts laughing. “That’s perfect, Raven! Bravo.”

That’s _horrifying_. Erik can only imagine the floppy ears Raven would make him wear, scooting around on his knees and barking for the whole goddamn play.

Charles turns his attention back to Erik. “I’m sorry, friend. That was rude of us to interrupt. What were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” says Erik.

As they leave for their classrooms as the end of lunch, Charles pats Erik’s shoulder and leaves him with this parting shot:

“I don’t envy you your stiffness. I suggest you take a wise word of advice from Madame Swift and _shake it off_.”

 

               

 

So Erik shows up that Tuesday at six, and then Thursday, and so on. His corner by the door becomes his official fixture. The women in the class know him by name, they ask him about his day, if he’s seeing anybody, if he _wants_ to see anybody and Erik has to fight against the urge to glance over at Charles. Erik slowly learns the routines to the songs Charles and Raven repeat often and doesn’t stumble as much, even though he still can’t sway his hips like Charles.

It’s still fucking embarrassing mainly because the more Erik does this, the more he realizes that he might be wrong and Charles might have a point. The second Sunday had the entire hour dedicated to rap music and booty pops that double as stand up crunches that leave unable to pick up the trash at lunch the next day. The first Thursday featured three songs in which Erik could not bring down his arms at all and left him so shaky he dropped the fucking textbook the next morning.

Erik goes for the bet, but he stays because the way Charles moves his body should be illegal. He switches seamlessly from the hard, intense rap or rock music to the sensual grace of salsa and R&B. Erik becomes grateful to memorize the routines of certain songs so he can put his body on autopilot and use his mind to admire the sway of Charles’ hips.

But even more intriguing is Charles’ enthusiasm. He throws himself fully into every song, sweat staining his loose t-shirts and clinging to his feathery hair. He whoops and hollers and claps and grins and never fucking tires, like Zumba _machine_. Even Raven struggles to keep up with him, sitting out a couple of songs so she can chug water from the sidelines.

His friend’s boundless joy is mesmerizing and Erik just wants to wallow in it.

 

Here’s the thing: Erik could have had his chance with Charles two and a half years ago. A spark developed between them despite their explosive arguments – or maybe in part because of them. Charles, so much more self-aware, actually asked him out for dinner while they chaperoned Erik’s first Winter Formal.

And then Erik, utterly blindsided and unaware of his own feelings, did the stupidest thing in his entire life.

He said no. Actually, he said, “What the fuck? No! I thought we were just friends. Besides I don’t date –“

“Telepaths?” Charles had finished with an unbearable sorrow on his face.

"Other men,” Erik said instead.

 Charles raises and eyebrow because they both know what a fucking bullshit lie that was. But instead of starting a scene or ditching Erik for Logan ( _the_ most obnoxious art teacher alive) on the other side of the gym, the man nodded and gave Erik a quick smile that did not reach his brilliant eyes.

 “I see. I’m terribly sorry, then, if I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

 “It’s fine,” Erik had said quickly, already starting to realize his mistake but too embarrassed and proud to fix it.

 A few minutes later Charles wandered out for some fresh air and never returned.

 Erik made it a point for the next week to continue as if nothing ever happened and after a few days of awkward distance, they returned to their normal, bickering selves.

Only, as the weeks passed, Erik had to deal with the crushing realization that he torched the chance to date the most beautiful and fascinating man in existence. In fact, he didn’t just torch that chance – he fucking razed it to the ground and then salted the earth around it.

And really, Erik could have took Charles aside all these months and come clean about his feelings and begged for forgiveness, but Erik has never been the begging type and he can’t admit that Charles had hit the nail on the head (he always does) – Erik didn’t trust telepaths.

He still doesn’t. With telepaths, free will is an illusion. There’s no guarantee that Erik’s thoughts or actions are his own and Erik just cannot fucking deal with that. But during all these months of pathetic pining, Erik decided he could make an exception for Charles Xavier.

All he has to do now is prove it.

 

After Zumba ends, if Erik wants any of Charles’ attention, he has to fight for it. This usually means nestling himself in with the group of women that Charles gossips with and participating. At first he felt weird and slightly creepy, standing on the fringes while listening politely to Allison bemoaning her girlfriend’s lack of movie taste and how it’s been two years since they went to the theater because none of them can agree on anything and Charles trying to offer advice. Now, two weeks later, he finds himself jumping in, sometimes backing Charles up, sometimes offering completely different approaches.

Today, on the last blustery Sunday in February, Erik winds up his courage and turns to Charles as their group breaks up and leaves.

“It’s rather cold today,” he says. “Do you want to, maybe, pop into the café and, um, get some  . . .coffee?”

 _Gott in Himmel_ , he sounds like an _idiot_. But Charles’ eyes light up.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” he says and Erik’s chest feels floaty and he smiles and then Charles turns to Raven and Hank and Pietro and says, “Let’s all go out for coffee!”

So they _all_ go to the café. Pietro snickers beside Erik as they wait in line.

“So that backfired,” he says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Erik says stiffly. “Also, I can fail you.”

“Then you’ll just get to enjoy me again for a whole other year.” Pietro gives him a sweet smile.

Erik glares at the menu so he doesn’t give in to the urge to smack it off.

               

It becomes a thing after that. Once Zumba ends and people disperse, he, Charles, Raven, Hank, and Pietro head over to the café for drinks. Erik usually buys Pietro a sandwich so he doesn’t have to see the kid look forlornly at the menu and whispering, “Soon”. He and Charles still find time to talk (argue) but Erik is a selfish man and he hates seeing Charles' attention split four ways.

One Tuesday in early March, Raven doesn’t show up to school.

“She’s sick,” Charles explains at lunch. “Bronchitis or something. She’ll be out the rest of the week. Sean has taken over the play for now.”

They share a look of horror.

“May God have mercy on their souls,” says Erik.               

Charles teaches Zumba alone that evening. Hank and Pietro are also missing and even though the place feels a bit empty, Erik is glad to have the lion’s share of Charles’ attention.

“Do you still want to go for coffee?” Charles asks after class. “It would just be me and you –”

“Of course,” says Erik.

He holds the door open for Charles and they walk next door. At six thirty in the evening, the place is  empty. He and Charles order their coffee and Erik leads them to a squashy loveseat by the window. They settle in, careful not to spill their drinks, the couch small enough that their knees brush together.

 “I love this place,” says Charles. “I don’t know why I never set foot here before. I’ve been doing Zumba for almost two years and never really noticed it.”

 “It’s cozy,” agrees Erik.

Charles is so close that Erik can feel the man’s body heat hot against his arm and smell the lingering scent of his shampoo. Erik’s stomach flutters and he takes a long sip of his coffee to settle it down.

“How did that happen?” he asks. “You and . . . Zumba?” He can’t help it – his nose wrinkles.

Charles laughs. “Well, it may come as no surprise to you, but I hate running in the cold. It interferes with my delicate sensibilities. So I started going to the gym during the winter, but it was _so boring_. I couldn’t stand it. I complained about it endlessly to Raven, who suggested that I try Zumba. A couple of her friends do it and she had been meaning to try it. So we went to a class together here and I was hooked. After a few months Raven and I got certified to teach our own class.”

“I once ran in a wind chill of negative ten,” says Erik.

Charles rolls his eyes. “Am I supposed to be impressed with that? Besides, not everyone is a polar bear like you.”

“I’m not a polar bear. Polar bears are fat.”

That gets another chuckle out of Charles and Erik wants to pat himself on the back. More often Erik’s talent lies in inspiring yelling than laughter.

“So I noticed that Hank didn’t show up this evening. Not exactly subtle is he?”

“My friend, he lost subtle the first time he showed up for Zumba. He’s over at Raven’s this evening, feeding her soup.”

Erik snorts. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? Hank is a kind-hearted, intelligent man who adores her. Besides, she would kill me if I ever tried the overprotective brother schtict. And you would fare no better, my friend.”

Erik puts a hand up. “I wouldn’t dare. I guess she could do worse than Hank.”

"This is coming from the man who called him a pathetic dweeb!” Charles cries. “You know that’s why she sided with me on the bet, right? She’s very defensive of Hank.”

“I’m capable of changing my mind,” says Erik quietly, locking eyes with Charles.

His friend stares, eyebrows furrowed as he searches Erik’s face.

 _I already have_ thinks Erik, opening his mind up. He can feel Charles ghosting at the edges and a wisp of panic flares up before Erik firmly squashes it back down. But it’s too late – Charles retreats like a startled deer, cheeks flushing.

“Charles –“

“How did you become a teacher?” Charles asks, leaning back in the couch. “You don’t seem to be someone who would volunteer to interact with teenagers, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Charles’ abrupt change in subject stings; Erik is tempted to fight against it, but stops himself. He doesn’t want to screw anything else up because he can’t shut the fuck up.

“Trust me, I never thought I would be,” he says. He drains the rest of his coffee. “I used to be a mutant rights activist, volunteering at shelters and heading protests on Capitol Hill in between construction jobs.”

Charles offers him a soft smile. “I can honestly say that doesn’t surprise me. It’s amazing. It’s so perfect for you. Why did you leave?”

Erik leans back, his shoulder brushing against Charles’, and fiddles with the lid of his empty cup. “I guess . . .I was surrounded by so many mutants, kids and adults, who were . . .lost, who never got the support they needed. And so many more humans just _steeped_ in ignorance. I realized that if I wanted to enact any _real_ change, I had to start from the ground up, educating and supporting the next generation so they can keep the fight going.”

It sounds hopelessly idealistic and naïve. He felt so much more powerful screaming on the steps of Congress, holding signs, feeding and sheltering homeless mutants than he does discussing the Reconstruction Era. But the work _never_ ended. Mutants never stopped needing those shelters, Congress never pulled their heads out of their collective asses. He can’t change the present, but he could influence the future.

He waits for Charles to poke fun at him, but the man stays silent. Erik chances a look, turning his head and nearly brushing noses. Charles is looking at him with awe.

Charles swallows. “That’s . . . exactly the same reason I teach. I didn’t expect to hear that from you.” He smiles softly. “I guess we finally agree on something.”

A few scant inches separate their faces. Erik can smell the mocha latte on Charles’ breath, can count his every freckle dusted across his cheeks and nose.

“I guess there is a first time for everything,” he murmurs.

It would be easy to kiss Charles right now. The café is dim and totally empty save for the cashier grinding coffee beans in the back room. It would only take the barest dip, the slightest lean, to capture Charles’ bottom lip and Erik thinks this time he just might do it.

“Erik?” Charles breathes, cocking his head ever so slightly to the side.

Erik brushes his thumb against Charles’ lower lip, fully intent on following it with his own mouth –

“Hey, sorry, guys! We gotta close up shop.”

The barista sticks her head out the door and immediately looks away. Charles starts and hastily gets up.

“Terribly sorry. We lost track of time,” he says to her.

“It’s alright. Thank you for your business.” She shoots Erik and apologetic look and he glares at her in return. Too late. The moment is ruined.

“It was great chatting,” says Charles as they leave. “But I’ve got to go check up on Raven. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodbye!”

Erik watches Charles essentially run away and wants to pound his head against the brick wall. It should have been dinner, his prize, before he opened his mouth and ruined it. He doesn’t want to hear Charles sing – _no one_ wants to hear Charles sing – and he doesn’t want to humiliate Charles in front of the entire school, not really. He just wants . . .he just wants Charles to give him anything Erik asks for. And what Erik will ask for, in his moment of ultimate triumph, is dinner at _Angela’s on the River_ and the shocked and flattered blush on Charles’ face when Erik asks him.

 

Just as before, Charles returns them to their previous level of interaction without a hint that anything had happened. Erik accepts it – for now. He has a goal now, and a deadline and he can wait. And just as inevitable, Charles caught Raven’s virus. When he didn’t show up for Zumba that Monday, Erik drove straight from class to the closet grocery store and bought ingredients to make homemade minestrone soup. If Hank can do it, then Erik sure as hell can.

When he knocks on the door of Charles’ house, he can hear his friend’s pathetic whine through the door.

“Raven, please. Just let me wallow in misery and go hang out with Hank. I can’t deal with your angry coddling.”

Erik laughed. “This isn’t Raven.”

“ . . .Erik?”

A painful sounding coughing fit erupted.

“Charles? Are you alright?”

“Erik . . .just go . . .you don’t . . .want to be here . . . for this.”

“Just shut up and let me in. I have soup.”

“Great,” Charles mutters. “More angry coddling. Well, it’s your funeral.”

The door opens and the bloodshot, haggard face of Charles appears.

“You look like _shit,”_ Erik blurts out.

Charles steps back and holds the door open. He’s dressed in the rattiest robe Erik has ever seen, a thin wife beater and checkered sleep pants. “Thank you, friend. I feel so much better now.”

“You should. I brought you minestrone.”

“But you hate minestrone.”

“But you love it, so here I am. Where is your kitchen?”

Charles leads Erik  past the tiny foyer and off to the left, where the kitchen resides. The sink is full of classes and bowls of what looks like half eaten ramen. Erik sets down his grocery bag and starts loading the dishes in the dishwasher. He can’t cook in a filthy kitchen.

“Say now, what are you doing?” says Charles. He hovers uselessly at the end of the counter. “You don’t need to do that, Erik. I’ll get them sorted once my medicine kicks in.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like I’m hand washing them. Go sit down before you fall over.”

Charles sits down at the island in the middle of the kitchen, alternatively watching Erik with rapt curiosity and laying his head down. Erik busied himself with his mother’s old recipe, the one she made for his father whenever he caught cold and became too grumpy to deal with. She had made sure the recipe took plenty of time so she could catch a break from his father’s pitiful whining. By the time Erik finishes, Charles is snoring softly, drooling on his arm.

Erik turns the fire off and steps softly over to Charles. He brushes Charles greasy hair away from his forehead and, after a moment’s hesitation, presses a light kiss there. Then he steps back and shakes Charles’s shoulder.

“Soup’s ready,” he says.

Charles groans and wipes his mouth. “How long was I laying here, _drooling_ all over myself like a dog?”

“A while.”

“Is that why you came over here? To see sights like that?”

Erik grins. “That’s part of it.”

He fixes Charles a hefty bowl and sits on the other side of the island from him.

“I can’t eat when you’re staring at me like that,” says Charles. “Do you want to go into the living room and watch some Netflix?”

It takes fifteen minutes of squabbling before they settle on a nauseating documentary unlikely animal friendship, an argument that Erik _lets_ him win because the man looks so fucking pitiful.

“Look,” sighs Charles, pointing at a Labrador and a baby cheetah wresting each other. “It’s us.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “We both know which one I am.”

Charles pats Erik’s knee. “You make an adorable puppy, Erik.”

 Charles gulps down two bowls of soup, begrudgingly admitting that it was better than the store bought kind he usually buys. Half way into the documentary, Charles falls asleep again. Erik deposits the soup bowls into the dishwasher and cleans the kitchen. He digs up some ancient Tupperware and spoons out the rest of the soup and sticks them in the refrigerator. He stares at the back of an empty envelope for a long moment before scribbling down _I missed you today._ Two steps from the door he turns around, scratches it out and just puts down _feel better soon_.

That night his phone flashes with a text from Charles.

_Thank you for the soup, my friend._

_(I missed you too)_

               

It’s the last week, the last day, and Erik can taste the victory champagne at _Angela’s On the River_. He and Charles take the team into weight room because of the stormy weather outside, even if it means Pietro dashing about between weight machines so fast he looks like a ghost and Alex silently trying to compete against his brother Scott to the point where he gets stuck under a barbell he can’t lift anymore.

When the bell rings for lunch, Pietro zips out so fast Erik only knows that he’s gone by the ten pound weight that’s dropped to the floor – and on top of Erik’s foot.

“ _Gott verdammt_! Pietro!” Erik yells, hopping on one foot.

He twists the metal weight into a useless blob and hurls it across the room with the other ones. The other boys watch with wide eyes until Charles hastily dismisses them.

Charles sighs. “There’s no use yelling after him – he’s probably already eating his second plate by now. Are you alright?”

“I think he broke one of my toes,” Erik mutters, leaning against the wall. “I’m going to kill him.”

“That’s strictly against school policy,” says Charles. “You’d be fired.”

"Then I’ll quit first and _then_ kill him.” He sighs. “You better head to lunch. I’ll catch up to you.”

“Are you kidding me? I’ve got to get you to the nurse’s office! Raven can take over for us.”

“I’m fine,” Erik grits out. “Just go. Please.”

His foot throbs, pain lancing all the way up to his knee at the slight bit of pressure. It’s enough to make his eyes water and Charles can _not_ witness that.

“Alright,” says Charles uncertainly. He claps Erik on the shoulder. “Hang in tight, friend. I’ll check up on you later.”

Erik nods and then waits until Charles leaves before he hobbles over to one of the benches.

 Perhaps if he takes enough pain killers and wraps his foot tight, he could make it to Zumba this evening.

 

By five thirty the top of his foot has swollen almost twice the size of the other foot and six ibuprofen doesn’t make a dent in his pain. But Erik limps over to Zumba anyway, arriving ten minutes early to snag a parking spot close to the door. The second Charles sees Erik gingerly climbing from his car, his face contorts into an angry scowl and he marches out to the sidewalk to meet Erik.

“ _What_ are you doing here?”

“What the hell do you think?”

“No,” says Charles.  “Absolutely not. Go home, Erik.”

“It’s the last day of the bet,” says Erik, crossing his arms. “There’s no way I’m missing this class. Now move.”

Charles braces his feet and crosses his arms.

"There is no way you’re setting foot in that building,” he counters.

 "I would love to see you stop me.”

Something dangerous flashes in Charles’ eyes and he puts his fingers to his temple. The next moment Erik comes to in the passenger seat of his own car, pulling into his driveway. Charles sits in the driver’s seat, looking positively murderous. He jabs the overhead light on, temporarily blinding Erik.

“What the _hell_ , Charles?” he demands.

“No, what the hell, _Erik._  Seriously. What the _hell_. You could have fractured your foot or broke another toe. At the very lease you would have been in excruciating pain and for what? A _bet?_ Do you enjoy seeing me lose so much that you would risk _bodily harm_?”

“That’s not what –“ Erik tries to protest but Charles is far from done.

“Well _congratulations_ , Erik. You won the bet. I forfeit. I’ll go up on stage in a few weeks and sing _It’s a Small World_ or _Mary Had a Little Lamb_ or whatever inane bullshit you want and you can be the winner. I hope you’re satisfied.”

 “No! No I’m not. This is not what I wanted!”

How did things spiral so out of control?

Charles threw his hands in the air. “Oh _wonderful_. You win the bet and it’s still not good enough for you? What else could you possible _want_ from me? What else could I -- ”

“Dinner!” yells Erik, slapping his hand on the dashboard. “I changed the bet, okay! I was going to ask you out to dinner instead.”

“Dinner?” Charles says faintly. “All this was for dinner? Why did you just _ask_ me?”

"Because this way you couldn’t say no. Or invite Raven and Hank and fifteen other people. It would just be me and you, on a real date.”

"But, you said you said we were just friends,” Charles says, eyebrows furrowed. “You said you didn’t date other men or . . .telepaths.”

“I lied,” says Erik, dragging a hand through his hair. “I freaked out. I was _stupid_. And trust me, I’ve been paying for it ever since. Jesus, Charles, can’t you _feel_ how much I want you, every time I look at you?”

_Can’t you feel it right now?_

“I’ve stayed well clear of your thoughts ever since that night,” admits Charles. “And besides, you can be attracted to someone and not want to date them, it happens all the ti—“

With a flick of his fingers, Erik’s seatbelt slips away and he’s leaning against the console, grabbing Charles’ chin with rough fingers and finally ( _finally_ ) kissing the breath out of him. Charles gasps underneath him and Erik uses that opportunity to encase Charles’ bottom lip in between his own and _suck_.  Charles lets out a moan that sends Erik’s blood running straight south –

Erik pulls reluctantly back, foot _throbbing_ , not sure if he could follow through its proper conclusion tonight.

“I want to date you,” he tells Charles.

“Okay,” his friend whispers, looking utterly star struck. “Okay.”

                 

“Sir?” Alex says, looking at the stereo Charles is plugging his iPod into like it could be a ticking bomb. “Permission to ask what the fuck it is we’re doing?”

“We gon’ dance _son_ ,” says Pietro, wagging his eyebrows. “Want me to show you an example?”

He moves in a blur like the Tasmanian Devil, a nickname that is rapidly replacing the one Pietro insists on: Quicksilver.

“See,” he says, stopping. “Easy.”

“It’ll be just as easy to plasma blast you in the _face_ ,” hisses Alex.

“Gotta catch me first.”

“Boys,” Charles warns. “Alex, we’re doing an exercise routine called _Zumba_. It mixes cardio and muscle toning moves with music and we are going to use it instead of the weight room during bad weather. Now space yourselves out, boys and follow My and Mr. Lehnsherr’s moves.”

He presses play on the iPod and a _Ke$sha_ song blasts from stereo. Erik recognizes it instantly.

“Fuck!” Alex yells and Erik spares him a detention because he understands Alex on a visceral level right now.

Charles shoots Erik an evil grin and the two of them jump into the routine.

               

                 

             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                 

               

               

 

                 

               

               

               

 

               

               

 

               

 

               

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Better Move, You Better Dance (The Before, During, and After Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4734485) by [afrocurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/pseuds/afrocurl)




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